Page 74 of A Billion Dollar Romance
* * *
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” James said, brushing a speck from the sleeve of his jacket. “Bridget thinks that we shouldn’t mention the fact that I was your professor. It’s, well…” He grimaced.
“We need a new story?” I asked. “We need to lie?” The floors ticked up;25, 26, 27.
He looked at me archly. “We’ve always been lying, Edie, remember?” Then his expression melted into warmth. “You don’t mind, do you? I know it’s last minute. We’ll just leave that part out. Say you contacted me for a critique, your writing held promise, I wrote back…”
“No, that’s fine,” I said, but a prickle of doubt crept up the nape of my neck. “Of course.”
31, 32, 34, P.Penthouse.
It was fine. There was nothing to worry about, just an interview for the society pages. They’d mostly be concerned with my clothes, James’s furniture.
Stepping through the elevator doors I found the living room bustling with activity. I blinked as a beam of bright light swung past my eyes and toward James’s couch, leaving me dazed for a moment.
“The photographers are getting set up, Mr. Martin,” a woman with her hair pulled back into a messy bun said, and he nodded dismissively.
“And the interviewer?”
“She’s here, she stepped into the kitchen I believe, setting up her recorder–”
“Good.” I looked up at James, and he looked back at me and winked. “First interview, Miss Taylor?”
I scowled and rolled my eyes. “No, I get interviewed all the time.Why did you change the tense here, Edie? Don’t you think ‘inchoate’ is tooSAT vocabfor a cozy mystery?”
“Your supervisor doesn’t count,” he said, then turned to me, heedless of the bustle of activity that surrounded us. “Edie, you’ll need to get used to this.” His face was stern, and I faltered for a moment.
“I thought it was only this spread,” I said. “Is there another article–”
“Not for us, sweetheart, for you. For your books, someday.”
I could feel the smile tugging at my lips, the blush rising to my cheeks, the happy bubble of excitement building–and the nerves. James knew I’d been writing, but I hadn’t told himwhat, half afraid that he wouldn’t approve.What would he think of my book?But James just winked at me and tipped my face up to meet his. My eyes fell closed as a soft kiss brushed against my lips.
The sound of a throat clearing had me jerking away from our embrace.
“Mr. Martin, Miss Taylor?” said a woman with a tape recorder and a professional smile. “I’m Sarah Barnes, withNew York Week.”
This is real, Edie,I reminded myself as James straightened his shirt cuffs under his suit.This could be your real life. Photoshoots and magazine articles, interviews about James and me, and about my books.
“We’re on a tight deadline–this needs to hit press on Friday, so we’ll do the photos and interview simultaneously, if that’s alright. It’ll look more natural that way, as well, if you aren’t focused on posing.”
James reached over, taking my hand in his, his warm, strong fingers tightened around mine, and I nodded.
* * *
“Have you told Professor Martin yet?” Flora asked, sitting at my tiny two-seat table with a mug of chamomile.Professor Martin.I cringed. Without even realizing it, Flora had reminded me why exactly I hadn’t.
I shook my head, pouring steaming-hot water from my little stovetop kettle into my own mug, swishing around the tea bag.
“I don’t knowwhy,” she said. “It’s not like he’ll be mad about it.”
“I know,” I said, taking my mug to the table across from her. “You’re right, of course.”
“But…” Flora prompted.
“I don’t want him to be… disappointed.”
“Disappointed? He’s been reading your other stuff, hasn’t he?”
